


Take a Look at Yourself in the Mirror and Cry

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Self Harm, brian wanted to join the we are sexy party and got denied, depressed!John, mentions of self harm, past self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: His fingertips went further up to his stomach, a few scattered scars from when he ran out of room elsewhere. He rubbed a particularly raised scar, knowing the skin was incapable of feeling like it used to. The nerves dulled by his safety razor he disassembled nearly every night.





	Take a Look at Yourself in the Mirror and Cry

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked: This might not be your cup of tea but how would you feel about a fic of self harm survivor John? Who maybe dealt with his depression and anxiety in an unhealthy way but got treatment because the boys were there for him when they found out? And even though he hasn’t self harmed in a long time, he still sometimes feels embarrassed when looking at/other people look at his scars and the boys just remind him how strong he is/how proud they are? I understand if it’s too much or triggering!

Mirrors were the one place you couldn’t lie to yourself. No matter how you tried to stretch the truth, a mirror was always there to remind you of reality.

John liked to pretend he was your average 20-something of the 70′s. College kid. Played in a band that probably wasn’t going anywhere. Went on dates and drank on weeknights. He put up that facade real well. The people around him were none the wiser, accepting him as another regular young adult.

But as John stood in front of his bathroom mirror, wiping away the fog from the shower he just took, he had to face the fact that he wasn’t.

Water droplets fell down the hills and valleys of his thighs. Pale and slender but marred with patches of bright pink. He touched a keloid on his right thigh, a reminder of the time he went far too deep for his skin to heal into a normal scar. On the other, faint white lines from his first few attempts. 

His fingertips went further up to his stomach, a few scattered scars from when he ran out of room elsewhere. He rubbed a particularly raised scar, knowing the skin was incapable of feeling like it used to. The nerves dulled by his safety razor he disassembled nearly every night. 

John looked through the mirror at his chest, a simple dusty pink line above his peck. He only did it to see how the red would contrast against his torso, a sick form of entertainment for a sick mind. 

When his eyes met his own, he looked away, a sense of shame welling up in him. Even though he was alone, he still felt embarrassed over the state of his body. Remorseful for what he did to himself.

He didn’t want to look at himself anymore, but the mirror coaxed him to face reality. To see his body for what it was. Crackled and marred. To accept that he too was a reflection of that. A broken man walking around as if whole.

He hugged himself, his hands running over his shoulders and upper arms. It seemed he saved the best for last. 

John liked cigarettes. And when he was by himself, he liked to be his own ashtray.

He shuddered, remembering the heat searing into his skin. The fizzle of the cigarette and the igniting of his flesh. He rubbed the white bumps wanting to forget.

He couldn’t explain his past actions other than saying he was empty. Nobody wants to be empty. So you begin to fill yourself with things and in this world, bad things are easier to come by. 

Filling himself with pain was better than having nothing at all. So that’s what he did. For years. And that need to be full left him shattered. 

John looked into the mirror, taking in the whole being that was himself. He felt numb to the image. He hugged himself tighter, unable to stop staring. Unable to stop the feelings of guilt.

He jumped when there was a knock at the door, quickly snagging a towel to wrap around his waist. In this house, privacy seemed to be optional.

Luckily, it didn’t open, instead Roger’s voice calling out. “You alright in there, John? You’ve been in there for an hour,”

John shook his head to clear his thought, his wet hair sticking all over his face. “I-I’m,” he had to cough to steel his nerves, “Fine. I’m fine,”

There was a silence before Roger hummed and walked away.

John sighed, leaning against the wall. He had to get out of here before he did something he hadn’t done in years.

♚

John was sprawled out on his bed, reading a comic book. He wasn’t paying too much attention to any of it, but it was a good enough distraction to keep his thoughts in a somewhat positive place.

He was so distracted by the bright colors and ridiculous catchphrases, he didn’t even notice when Roger slinked into his room until he threw himself on the bed, making John yelp.

“Jesus! Could you knock?” John said, scooting over to give Roger some room. 

Roger gave a toothy smile, replying, “I thought I did,”

John rolled his eyes, continuing with his action hero comic, assuming Roger just wanted to bother him. A seemingly hesitant tap to the shoulder told him otherwise.

He looked at Roger, eyebrow cocked. His stomach did flips seeing Roger’s face had gone gentle. Roger wasn’t gentle unless it was one of  _those_ talks.

“In the shower today…you didn’t sound, uh, fine, you know…” Roger slowly said, fingers fiddling with the string of his pants. Nobody really enjoyed  _these_ talks.

“Oh, uh yeah. I mean I wasn’t, b-but I wasn’t doing anything bad. Promise,” John said with a fast nod, as if trying really hard to convince Roger.

John’s self harm was an open secret in Queen. John hid it well, but when you lived with your band mates who had no sense of personal space, things got out. It was Brian who walked into the bathroom without so much as a warning and caught John in the act. After a group meeting and a stint with a therapist, John was mostly off the hook. But every once in a while, one of them would check in. Which John understood and appreciated, but it never made the conversation of purposefully mutilating yourself less awkward.

Especially when they didn’t believe him.

Roger’s head lolled to the side, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Really?” he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

John understood this too. 

With a sigh, he lifted up the sleeves of his shirt to show no new burn marks. He lifted up his shirt to show no new cuts on his stomach. He was getting ready to take off his pants when Roger stopped him.

“Woah there, okay, okay, I believe you, Christ. I just gotta make sure our little bassist is alright. You get that, right?” he said, looking away as John redid his pant button.

“I do,” John said as he picked up book back up, expecting this to be the end of it. What a surprise that it wasn’t. 

“Um…so then, what is wrong? Something bugging you?” Roger went soft again, inching a little bit closer to John. John’s grip on the book tightened, his heart lurching. John  _really_ didn’t want to talk about how he felt ugly, but those stupid puppy eye’s of Roger always had a way of making him spill his guts.

He didn’t even notice his lips moving until words were already coming out. “I er was just looking in the mirror. Y’know…looking at all the,” John gestured to his body, hoping Roger would get he meant his scars, “And, uh, yeah there’s a lot of them. And they’re all so in your face. I was thinking that,” he laughed nervously, “God, I’m ugly. A mess,” John was looking down at his book, too sheepish to look at Roger.

Roger was quiet for a minute, chewing on his bottom lip. John thought maybe this was far above his pay grade to deal with. He should’ve just said he had indigestion and left it at that. 

“Someone told me once that scars prove you survived a battle with something. That you not only survived it but came out on top. Maybe it’d help to think about it like that. A battle you faced and won. You didn’t come out unscathed but you came out alive,” Roger said as he rubbed his chin. 

John mulled over those words but couldn’t find them resonating as true for him. Surgery scars could be rephrased as proof of a battle but self harm scars? He did that to himself. He knew what he was doing. He did it with the purpose of losing.

He shook his head, smiling but not from joy. It seemed hollow and so did his voice as he said, “I did this to myself. It’s not brave or heroic. Just cowardly,”

“John, nobody hurts themselves on purpose. In those moments, you are quite literally battling your humanity against depression,” Roger quipped back almost immediately. 

John appreciated the effort but found himself irritated at the comment. “Like you would know?” This was his struggle and he’d figure it out himself. He didn’t need a pep talk from someone who was never there.

Roger blinked, as if offended and got up from the bed. John felt bad for what he had just said, but didn’t mind if Roger left. His mood had soured considerably. 

He was about to return to his comic when Roger dropped his pants with a shrug. 

The word pervert died in his mouth, his jaw dropping instead. There were white scars all over Roger’s legs. White and beige with age, but absolutely there and absolutely real.

“I know what the hell you’re talking about, John. And you’re a beautiful fucking creature who won against something as deadly as depression. I know ‘cuz I did it too,”

He promptly pulled his pants up with a stern look on his face.

John wanted to say something intelligent, but only sputtered out “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Roger rubbed the back of his neck, swaying a little. “I guess I was embarrassed too..but..not anymore! We’re sexy mother fuckers, yeah? No need for shame when we look this good!”

John snorted, covering his face with his hands.  _Maybe_ this pep talk was working.

“Speak for yourself, Rog,”

“No! Say it with me, John! I’m sexy and I know it!! C’mon!! I’m sexy a-” Roger was jumping around, hitting a giggling John with a pillow, trying to get him to repeat after him. It would’ve worked if Brian hadn’t walked in.

“What the  **bloody** hell is happening here?” he asked, baffled as to why Roger wanted John to say he was sexy. 

“Motivational speech. You’re not invited. Get out,” Roger deadpanned, easily pushy the lanky Brian out the room and shut the door. 

Immediately John and Roger broke out into cackles, Roger tossing himself back into bed with John.

“If I say I’m sexy, will you promise to never take your pants off in front of me again?” John said, shoving at Roger’s side.

“No promises,” Roger said, shrieking when John hit him in the face with a pillow.

Of course, it’d take much more than an impromptu “motivational speech” to make John feel at home in his body, but it was a good start. Seeing how Roger carried himself with confidence, an aura of “I know I’m worthwhile” surrounding him gave John someone to look up to. Their pasts were hard and they over came them through willpower alone. And despite the scars that were interwoven with their skin, they deserved to love themselves. They deserved to feel beautiful and handsome. John knew he’d get there. He’d be friends with the mirror one day.


End file.
